Dear students, today's lesson is...

The youngest and the oldest in our family.

As Mom gets closer to the end of her body’s life, I’m trying very hard to appreciate this incredible opportunity to learn.

I’m learning a great deal about the process of dying—the physiology, the stages, the emotional/psychological roller coaster, the humor, the drugs, the drug interactions, the moments of joy. I’m also learning that no matter what the research says, the process is not predictable, nor are there neat demarcations between one stage and another. It’s messy; the trajectory is convoluted, random, and circles back on itself over and over—some days look like “getting better,” and some days feel like the last day. There are no straight lines gliding downhill toward a tidy, scheduled death.

I’m learning about my mother. Impending death strips away pretense, bravado, and show[wo]manship. I may have caught glimpses before of my mother’s insecurities, but the raw root fears behind these insecurities are roiling full-on now, perpetually whipping up the surface. I’ve learned that my mother is terrified of silence, of being alone, of loss of control, of appearing less than charming and pulled together, of oblivion. Learning these things has helped me make Mom’s environment more comfortable—playing music, having a TV on, chatting as she gets tucked back in bed, helping her dress up now and then, can all help alleviate, at least temporarily, her fears.

I can’t really do anything about Mom’s fear of death, which she’s only expressed out loud once. I don’t pretend with her that I know what will happen in that moment, or where she’ll go, or if she’ll go anywhere. I don’t make stuff up to make her feel better. I do talk to her about how we move through the veil (metaphorically) at birth and again at death, two parallel doorways in a natural, earthly life. I assure her that we will take care of her throughout this process, that she won’t be alone or in pain, that she’ll be comfortable. I remind her how lucky we are that she can be in her own sweet room, tended to by people who love her.

Mom and brother get ready to brawl.

More than anything, I’m learning about myself. I’m learning that it’s easy to be all Buddhist and talk the talk about compassion and unconditional love. But at 5 a.m., when Mom’s been awake every 1.5 hours for the past 24, when meds/fear/disorientation make her mean and combative, when she crawls out of bed sideways past her guardrails and ends up on the floor, then it takes some superhuman zen to walk the walk. I’ll admit my walk-the-walk skills have come up short a few times, and I’ve blown my stack or fallen into a puddle of weeping mess. It’s a constant reminder that I’m a work in progress.

I’m also learning that my lifetime of idealistic belief in home hospice as the best death is now frequently running up against the gritty, dirty, frustrating, isolating, and just plain physically HARD realities of 24/7/365 caretaking. And I’ve become painfully aware that one advantage of institutional care for the dying is a TEAM of caregivers, not one caregiver who sometimes wants to curl up in a dark closet and suck her thumb.

Wishful thinking.

Today, though, Mom had an early morning shower and is napping peacefully, the sun is shining, our canaries are singing, and the coffee is hot and strong. So I’ll eat my peanut butter toast and see what lessons the day brings.